The Devil Upstairs

by Anthony O'Neill

  It was from Maxine in Number Four.

  Hear that man screaming last night?

  Holy f**k! What a noise! XXX

  So it hadn’t been a bird or a fox after all. Probably a late-night reveller, Cat thought, staggering home from a booze-up.

  But, too hungry for distractions, she went to find some noodles.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  When she got home, Cat turned on one of the TV news channels to remind herself that her personal problems didn’t amount to a hill of beans. A disobedient country somewhere was being bombed and starved into submission. The billionaire founder of a famous telecommunications company was scheming the tax system. The US Secretary of State was eagerly anticipating the Rapture. A prominent MP had allegedly murdered a rent boy who’d threatened to expose him. Scientists were predicting that a catastrophic collapse of ecosystems owing to aggressive farming techniques was ‘all but inevitable’.

  Cat absorbed it all absent-mindedly while drafting emails to the soundproofing company, indicating that she was prepared to accept the terms of their quotation, and to her solicitor Stuart, asking for a rundown of procedures necessary for a property sale. Rummaging her brain for the right words, she glanced upwards and noticed a dark stain bruising the ceiling. She got up for a closer look.

  No doubt about it. A brownish blotch, about the size of a dinner plate, right above her globe lamp. And – now that she looked closer – another one nearby. And a much smaller one near that.

  Cat couldn’t work it out. Maxine had spoken of Moyle’s overflowing bathtub when the previous owner, Connie, had been in residence, but this ceiling was nowhere near Moyle’s bathroom. Maybe he’d just dropped something? A bottle of beer? Or wine? Or perhaps one of the radiator pipes, loaded with rusty water, had burst?

  She returned to her emails, philosophical. If she went ahead with the installation of suspended ceilings then the stain would soon be concealed anyway. And if the problem persisted, the burst pipe dripping dirty water onto the lower ceiling . . . well, that would be the new owner’s problem.

  There you have it, Cat thought to herself – you’ve already managed to ‘palm the problem off’.

  For all that, she slept remarkably well that night, without a single interruption, and woke to the sight of an incredible sunrise – great flares of amber, peach and vermilion – bleeding out across the southern sky. She thought about going for an early swim, or a run, for the first time since those joyous first weeks in Edinburgh. But then she reminded herself that the serenity wouldn’t last – it never did – and she rolled over for more sleep.

  At the office that day she worked so fast and efficiently – beginning, among other things, a discreet investigation into the hierarchy of departments at ABC – that she started to feel that this enforced grounding might not be such a bad thing after all.

  At lunchtime, word reached her that Agnes had again phoned in sick.

  Arriving home that evening – she’d walked all the way – Cat noticed that a brown-paper envelope addressed to Moyle – a tax notice or some such thing – had still not been collected from the mailbox. And in her living room the brownish ceiling stain had darkened and spread. She wondered for the first time if it might be blood. The possibility was both appalling and exciting – because of what it suggested – but she chose not to take it seriously. She tried not to think about it at all.

  That night she lay exhausted in bed – she’d been for a punishing run through leafy north-west Edinburgh – and listened intently for any noises from upstairs. But there was nothing. Not a single creak. Not a muffled nnnnnnhhhhhhrrrrrrr. And certainly no plonks, ka-lunks or twangs. She was so alarmed – and intrigued – that she couldn’t relax until close to midnight, amused, for what it was worth, that it was now tranquillity that was keeping her awake.

  On Thursday Agnes returned to the office and first had to submit to a dressing-down from Wing Commander Bellamy. Cat, at Jenny’s desk with her back turned, heard the sort of protests that she herself had avoided. Then the slam of the cockpit door. She refrained from looking up, however, convinced that any sisters-in-arms camaraderie would be counterproductive at this stage.

  But at lunch she caught up with Agnes at a tourist-crowded Forrest Road pub.

  ‘That Sassenach cunt,’ Agnes whined. ‘Sorry, fud, Sassenach fud. I told you he had a problem with women. If you’d ever met his wife, you’d know why.’

  ‘I heard they were divorcing,’ Cat said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s the whisper in the lunchroom.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Agnes. ‘Did you know he had a fling a couple of years ago with some tart from Transaction Processing? Said he was the worst shag in history. And when that leaked out he was so humiliated he took it out on us. Well, looks like we’re all gonna pay, yet again, because he feels emasculated. Do you know he’s still pretending he’s got Type-1 diabetes?’

  ‘He hasn’t?’

  ‘Of course not. That’s just an excuse he dreamed up to explain his failure to get into the RAF.’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘Of course. Ever seen him injecting himself? Testing his blood sugar? It’s bullshit. Everything about him’s bullshit. He’s especially scared of women who turn him on – that’s why he doesn’t like you.’

  ‘I didn’t sense that.’

  ‘Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.’

  Cat made an ambivalent noise. ‘He had me in for one of his chats too, you know. He told me you’d claimed a couple of dinners I paid for as a business expense.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ Agnes giggled. ‘The expense account is one of our few kickbacks in this profession – I was gonna mention it to you sooner or later.’

  ‘I covered for you,’ Cat said. ‘I told him the meals were on business time.’

  ‘You’re a pet. I owe you one. Well’ – Agnes reconsidered – ‘I would owe you one, except of course that it’s actually you who owes me.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Aye, you know. For all I’ve done for you.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The problem. Has it been taken care of yet?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘You mean Moyle?’

  ‘I don’t mean Thomas the fucking Tank Engine.’

  Cat shrugged. ‘I’m not sure where he is.’

  ‘Ha!’ Agnes leaned in and lowered her voice. ‘He’s gone, isn’t he!’

  ‘He hasn’t been collecting his mail.’

  ‘Of course he hasn’t.’

  ‘But his car’s still in its space.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  Cat stopped herself from mentioning the stain on the ceiling. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He might have gone off somewhere.’

  ‘Leaving his car behind?’

  ‘People don’t always take their cars when they travel.’

  Agnes guffawed. ‘The only place that Moyle’s travelled to is the other side. He’s been taken care of, Cat – I told you it would happen. He liked you. He really liked you.’

  Cat wanted to point out that Agnes had never said explicitly how the problem would be ‘taken care of’. Or who it was who ‘really liked’ her. But at just that moment Wing Commander Bellamy entered the pub, looking around for someone, and they both clammed up and bowed their heads, pretending they weren’t there.

  The following evening, Friday, 10 November, Cat was standing on a wooden chair, examining the ceiling stain at closer range – there was a line of congealed blood on the fitting above her globe light – when she heard the buzz of the intercom upstairs. Someone was calling up to Moyle. But Moyle wasn’t answering.

  More buzzing. Insistent.

  Cat moved to her bedroom window, seeing a car parked at an angle behind hers, its doors wide open. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the Hyundai belonging to the straggly-haired rocker – the guy who’d thought it was
such a riot to call her Shania Twain.

  Then her own intercom buzzed.

  For a moment she thought about pretending she wasn’t home. But she relented and answered the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Aye’ – a familiar Scottish voice; she was convinced now it was the rocker dude – ‘can you open this door? I need to get up to Number Six.’

  Cat wondered if she should resist – there was a warning downstairs about letting strangers into the common stair – but she gave in again.

  ‘OK.’ She hit the release button.

  Kah-lunk.

  Clapclapclapclapclapclap. More than one person was coming up the stairs. They were passing her flat. Cat backed into her living room, looking at the ceiling stain.

  BANG BANG BANG BANG. They were knocking on Moyle’s door.

  ‘Bawbag! Bawbag! Open up! Bawbag!’

  BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

  No response from Bawbag. Cat glanced again at the ceiling.

  BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

  Eventually the visitors filed back down the stairs, defeated.

  Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

  Cat thought that might be the end of it. But when she went to the window she saw even more rockers standing next to the Hyundai, engaged in a sort of ragtag conference. One of them was talking earnestly on a mobile phone. When he looked up and spotted Cat she retreated, none too swiftly.

  She returned to the living area. Put down a drop sheet. Dragged a can of white paint out of the box room. Popped open the lid with a flathead screwdriver and stirred the paint. Then – without even changing out of her business clothes – she climbed back onto the chair and started painting over the stain.

  Even she, the student of human nature, wasn’t sure why this was so important.

  When she’d finished she was alarmed by the smell. Maybe someone would come in and ask what she’d been doing. She washed the paintbrush in white spirits, dried it with an old cloth and replaced the can back in the box room. Then she noticed a drop of white paint on the shoulder of her jacket. Dammit. She tried to dab it out but now the jacket reeked of turpentine. The whole apartment did. Panicking, she tossed the jacket in the washing machine, along with the rest of her clothes and cleaning cloths, and put it all on an intense spin cycle.

  She changed into her Lycra and even wondered if she should go out for a run, to prove how nonchalant she was. But when she went back to the window she noticed a locksmith’s van had parked beside the Hyundai. The locksmith seemed to be chatting with Moyle’s friends and occasionally glancing up at the building. Why weren’t they coming up? Then Cat saw a police car pulling up as well. But of course – they needed official supervision to open the place.

  Cat drew back again. She threw open a window and sprayed some perfume around.

  CLAPclapCLAPclapCLAPclapCLAPclapCLAP. A whole posse was coming up the stairs.

  Arriving at Moyle’s door.

  BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. As if one last attempt might finally rouse Moyle.

  Muffled voices. The squawk of a police radio. Firecrackers going off in the distance – leftovers from Bonfire Night.

  Then the clink of tools. Scraping. More clinking. The locksmith doing his thing.

  Kee-wah!

  The door had been sprung.

  CreakCreakCreakCreakCreak. The men were entering Moyle’s flat.

  Cat’s heart was hammering.

  CreakCreakCreak.

  The men stopped.

  Cat, standing directly beneath, was rigid, listening intently for some sort of reaction.

  Which, it turned out, was a chilling exclamation flanked by two protracted periods of awestruck silence.

  ‘. . . . . . . . FUCKING HELL! . . . . . . . . .’

  A firework exploded in the distance.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  There were comings and goings all night. Cat, still in her running gear, spent much of her time peeking out the window of her darkened bedroom, watching the new arrivals, recoiling at first whenever someone looked her way, then figuring that she had every right to be curious – anything else would be suspect. She even got a text message from Maxine:

  Jesus, do you know what’s going on?

  To which she replied:

  Not sure.

  Before adding impulsively:

  And my name’s not Jesus.

  Then she became ashamed of her own levity.

  There were more police vehicles, and cops donning forensic suits, and a sober-looking guy in a crumpled grey suit and a plaid tie who everyone seemed to be deferring to. And finally a crane of a man who couldn’t have looked more like a coroner if he was carrying a bone saw. All these in turn clopped up and down the stairs and into the flat above. The noises now were an odd mix of the everyday and the unfamiliar.

  Creak creak creak creak.

  Thonk!

  Twik twik twik. Like equipment being set up.

  Schwit schwit schwit. Like scraping.

  Hhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmm. Like a small motor.

  And numerous guarded voices, saying nothing distinct.

  Shortly after midnight most of the crew departed, but there remained three police cars downstairs and at least two officers above (Cat could hear them shuffling and chatting). When she finally risked opening her door, she saw crime scene tape strung across the stairwell – and that seemed to make it official.

  Moyle – TurMoyle – was dead.

  Cat indulged in a sleeping tablet that night simply because she knew she’d be questioned sooner or later and didn’t want to be tired and confused. Or worse, to look tired and confused. But as it happened she barely slept anyway, trying to block from her mind any memories of the ritual at Aileanach Castle. Refusing to accept that she might be somehow accountable. And wary of some dreadful debt that she might now have to pay. While all the time, in the back of her mind, working out how much money she’d save by not installing the soundproofing; by not moving; by not paying sales tax and agency fees; by not spending a couple of nights a week in the hotel; by altogether being more rested, fitter and alert; by simply enjoying life again – by revelling in her wonderful new life in Edinburgh.

  First thing in the morning the full posse of cops was back again, along with an elderly bewigged lady whom Cat assumed was Moyle’s aunt. There was more clattering up and down the stairs and murmuring in sombre tones. The aunt was assisted back to a taxi and spirited away, looking pale as a corpse. Then the cops were back making measurements, using their strange equipment, finally extracting something – a body? crime scene evidence? – in a big black bag. A multitude of big black bags.

  Cat’s landline rang.

  She’d been expecting a knock on the door but now she had to consider the possibility that the police were phoning her instead.

  She answered tensely. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Well done! Well done, girl! I told you you wouldn’t regret it.’

  Cat – fearful she might be overheard by the cops upstairs – spoke in a whisper. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, come on, girl. I read all about it in the press! “Dead body found in Dean Village”!’

  ‘It’s in the newspapers? Already?’

  Agnes laughed with unrestrained glee. ‘If a dog shits on the pavement, it’s news in Edinburgh.’

  ‘But that’s all they say? Just dead body?’

  ‘Something about “mysterious circumstances”.’

  Cat lowered her voice even further. ‘So he could have killed himself, right?’

  ‘If that’s what you need to believe, go for it.’

  ‘I’m serious. He could have killed himself – I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Aye right, whatever. The result is the same anyway. Rejoice! Wanna go out to celebrate?’

  ‘I think it’s best that I stay here.’

  ‘Yup, I understand. We’ll have a glass of bubbly later. This is a stormer of a day for you, Cat. You probably don’t even realise it ye
t, but this is one fine day!’

  When she hung up, Cat again contemplated the repainted ceiling. It was the quantity of blood that had made her suspect it was a suicide – as if someone had slit his wrists and slowly bled to death. Then again, if it had been an ordinary everyday suicide would there be so much police attention? Would it be reported on the news?

  She threw down her drop sheet again and was painting the cornices – a means of accounting for the persistent paint smell – when there was a commanding rap on the door. This was it.

  She started taking off her paint-spattered DIY blouse – a chambray number she’d picked up at a charity shop – but then decided it looked OK and rebuttoned it. She took a deep breath, girded herself and answered the door.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector McReynolds.’ It was the guy in the grey suit: balding, squinty-eyed, like the lead in some gritty BBC crime drama. He flipped open a warrant card and nodded to a younger guy with much better dress sense. ‘And this is Detective Constable Purves.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I’m Cat Thomas. Come right in, officers. I’ve been painting today so you’ll have to excuse the smell.’

  The two men, looking appropriately grim, moved into her living room, where Cat invited them to sit down. ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee? Herbal tea?’

  ‘We’ve not got the stomach for anything right now,’ McReynolds said gravely. ‘Nice place you have here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I had a schoolfriend once who lived down this neck of the woods.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I used to come down the hill every weekend, stopping at the sweet shop. That’s gone now.’

  ‘I wish I’d been here to see it.’

  ‘Beautiful place, the Dean. I’d love to be able to afford a place here now.’

  ‘It’s not that expensive, you know, if you’ve got American dollars.’

  A paper-thin smile. ‘Then I wish I’d the good fortune to be born in America.’